DISSOCIATION or SAD WATERS whichever you prefer
by What 1987
Summary: Holmes is after Moriarty quite astutely. In the snow or not debauchery is good to Holmes and Watson.
1. I LONG INTRODUCTION

AUTHOR'S NOTE WITH A WARNING:

This is my last fic. Will not be too long. I'll finally write by chapters. I think I have based myself more in the books than in the movie, but since there's always a porn bit at least I just can't understand why anyone would think porn with the books, you know, it's weird, so I post here. Alright so this is the whole story going on with Moriarty, if any of you don't know what happened with Moriarty read at your own risk, it's understandable but I don't know if it will ruin some of the sherlock holmes II for you (I don't know how it will be but maybe they'll adhere to something).

Alright, also all in this is gray, I mean, not sad, no stark fluff, no nothing, gray; and despite all its grayness I never have a point, it would be lame of me to have a point.

Here we go:

* * *

LONG INTRODUCTION OR IN WHICH THE DJIVER CANAL IS THE STAR

Holmes knew an emperor of crime existed in England (indeed an emperor, for at that time the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was an empire and his net ran by many of its territories, though also - crime not respecting official frontiers - his empire occupied other land which in the maps belonged to France, Germany and Spain), but he didn't know who it was until – as Watson's account correctly placed – the fourth of January of 1891. How he got to be after him Holmes called a "trip" on the part of Moriarty; it would be very well called that in a world where everything was improved...

Moriarty was hidden behind Colonel Moran and then behind other three major agents: Alfie Gray, Joshua Burns and Declan Diaz; such was the chain of command. Moran met with Moriarty only when indispensable and where they wouldn't be seen, in the fields in the outsides of London, beyond the West End Station, (no risk to find any of his scarce students there or teacher colleagues, or for Moran any of his subordinates, wife and sons, lovers and friends…); their reunion site had a code name as well as the act itself and the numbers and signs used to indicate the hour, and each time the code was changed, the end of their reunion was always marked by Moriarty telling Moran what code would be used next (not that it needed too much wit, it was always some standard sentence that wouldn't wake any suspicion). Moran spent part of his days screaming and scaring soldiers in the Honorable Artillery Company Armoury (he also falsified documents and that was the way in which, at least the London Gang, got their guns), they obviously had telegraphs there and so they did at King's College (where Moriarty taught a few classes but mostly did research, the kind of all genius-driven-secluded research proper of the times), but they faded away their connection by sending the summoning telegrams instead from post offices nearby, nearby because not even them were without time and space limitations. Joshua Burns ruled the thugs that executed the orders sent by letter and scarcely personally by Moran regarding London where their activity was more intense; Declan Diaz ruled those who indeed were travelers, yes, a dynamic unit always on the move which also acted as pirates in the seas; while Alfie Gray was an agent for transactions or in other words criminal agreements with gangs from "the continent". Moriarty was invested with great brain, economic and muscle power.

How was Holmes supposed to know he was behind any job?; they would get to Joshua Burns maybe and it was already a long shot, to Moran if they were too lucky, but to Moriarty?. The flaw was that had Moriarty kept that isolated, his agents would have taken over, he would be losing the rewards from their operations since many would be carried without his consent or knowledge; it is true that it wasn't easy to escape Moriarty's scope, he could detect the signature of his own gang without problem, with as much as reading the square of text that was the report about it on the papers, and they all had learnt treason was paid with life and some former minutes of excruciating pain. Moriarty had gotten to be the head of all those toughs because of his capacity to detect opportunity, and had stayed as such because of his capacity to scheme, which meant everyone wanted to be under his command; their strikes had high benefits and good odds at no one getting caught. He detected opportunity by reading the papers; through infiltrated agents in the government, the banking system, and other such important and influential sectors; and by walking around; the first two meant well paid blackmail or "favors" could be done, the second meant there were great loots to obtain from robbery in houses, vessels and trains; he had long ears and fast hands, he heard things and made himself with the possession of records.

The "trip" happened when Alfie Gray was murdered in Bruges, Belgium; Alfie Gray was found drowned in the banks of Djiver canal in Christmas Eve and the case enraptured Holmes, because of the day it happened and because it was Christmas when he read it (and Holmes wasn't as cold and logical as he claimed, things that happened in Christmas had also a different scent to him), because Alfie Gray was supposed to be an important businessman of great reputation and they had stupidly speculated that drunk he had fallen to the canal, and because a note had been found in his pocket which read and was written in English: "Mathéo Olivier 135,000 pounds; Romain Bonnet 200,000 pounds; Bank 1,000,000 pounds approx". In fact it would be best if you all read what he read at 12 in the afternoon on Christmas day when he woke up after a cocaine-induced stupor:

"MR. ALFIE GRAY CARON OWNER OF G-STEEL MURDERED.

Mr. Alfie Gray Caron, important businessman owner of the French knife producer company G-Steel, was found dead in Bruges, Belgium, around 8:15 p.m of Christmas Eve by Eloy van Hecke of 15 years old. The body was found in one of the few earth banks of the Djiver canal.

Until now the police have only revealed that earlier speculation going around in the local news, by which drunk Mr. Gray would have fallen to the canal and drowned were wrong; although the police determined by his breath that he had indeed drunk a high quantity of some alcoholic beverage, the different patterns of wetness and some dry patches on his clothes, as well as the position of the body led police officer Cornelis Dingue to ascertain they were in fact signs of struggle; according to him, - in what turned to be very soon the police's official version -, Mr. Alfie Gray would have been murdered by being forced to drowning about an hour before his body was found.

Eloy van Hecke is being held custody for the moment though he is considered a weak suspect. Dingue declared: "Eloy van Hecke lives as he said in the street of Bejignhof, right by the side of the canal, he immediately informed the police of having found the body, and upon his shock he threw the ginger cookies he said was taking to his friend Pieter Vlaminck who lives only a few houses away; we are taking him to the police station for further interrogation and holding him in cautionary custody for forty-eight hours, after which if no incriminating evidence against him is found he will be released."

G-Steel is leader in knives' sales in France, with exports to the German Empire and Russia; Mr. Alfie Gray also had investments in Netherland's Dijkstra's tulips and coffee plantations. He was son to an Englishman and of French mother, had resided in France for the past eight years and wore the French nationality. It yet rests for the French Police to make any declarations about their possible intervention in the case. The press will also be expecting statements from his lawyer Ugo Morel and his business associates.

Report by Archie Evans, from Belgium."

The paperboy trusted in Sherlock Holmes and so he always delivered all the papers whether he was available to pay at the moment or paid next day, or later; another paper then gave the news like this:

"WEALTHY BUSINESSMAN FORCED TO DROWN DURING SNOWY CHRISTMAS EVE.

_By Logan Barnes_

It was the 24th December, Christmas Eve in the colorful town of Bruges Belgium; people celebrated the birth of Jesus in the comfortable warm in their houses, some played under the snow and Sint-Salvatorskathedraal (Cathedral of Saint Salvador) belfry struck 8 o'clock, when Eloy van Hecke of 15 years old with residence in Bejignhof, stood in the bank of Djiver's Canal by the side of the blue corpse of Mr. Alfie Gray Caron, the ginger cookies he had carried on the wet ground around it.

Mr. Alfie Gray is a renowned businessman, owner of the knives' producer company G-Steel. According to the police, he was brutally murdered at most one hour earlier that same holy day; it is presumed the merciless assassin held his head underwater until he drowned.

Eloy van Hecke, until now the only suspect and already apprehended, claims innocence alleging he was going to the house of his best friend and also neighbor Pieter Vlaminck (a kid also), to offer some of the ginger cookies his mother had prepared for the festivities, when he saw the gruesome scene the flaccid corpse of Mr. Gray made, after which, scared, he immediately ran to inform the police.

Apparently Mr. Gray had no close family and died without issue, so it is unclear to whom his wealth shall be going; his lawyer Ugo Morel has refused making any declaration on the subject. It is clear however that this is no ordinary murder, but one where high economic interests are at stake, and thus the investigations will not cease until the guilt has been properly placed.

The police will not give any more details about the case to the press; but this reporter has found out that Mr. Alfie Gray had on him only his notes-replete wallet and a piece of paper which text I quote here literally: "Mathéo Olivier 135,000 pounds; Romain Bonnet 200,000 pounds; Bank 1,000,000 pounds approx"… a businessman until his last breath."

Holmes read all the papers about it, but neither of the others gave other new or useful facts; he speculated about that which he cared with the data from these two reports, of which he found, in both, the last part to be the most interesting. Pounds… 'pounds', he thought, and the sheer volume registered!, so informally too, in a piece of paper, two of them with names of men instead of companies, a bank without name… "bank" in English, he was supposed to have lived in France for eight years; and he only made business in Netherland, the German Empire, Russia and France, what was he doing noting down ciphers in pounds sterling?, (it wasn't the more appropriate exchange currency )… What was he doing making business personally with some men, what was he a salesman?, he went around selling knives for such quantities to men without companies, he followed other people's investments?… What dirty business was he involved in?... 'in the United Kingdom' no less…

And thus Holmes knew Alfie Gray was working with criminals from the United Kingdom; he didn't want to jump to conclusions but a rumor in his mind wouldn't let him be, 'The Head', it said.

And then it was January 1st, New Year indeed, and when he woke up from another cocaine-induced stupor and the long hours of sleep after, he went to see his brother Mycroft; Mycroft hadn't had the decency to visit him in Christmas nor in New Year's Eve but then again neither had he… only Sherlock and Mycroft understood each other, no rancor about it, what were they?, sentimental religious fools?, visiting each other for no reason at all during holidays… no; only Sherlock cared to visit because having enjoyed useless company before now left him feeling lonely at moments.

Everybody knew him at the Houses of Parliament, not that it mattered now, January first most of them were on vacations… Holmes entered and was striding by the halls as if it was his own house, accompanied by the echo of his steps; boy was it annoying getting to Mycroft while all alternative entries to the palace were closed!; he had to go around from the Westminster Hall to the St. Stephens Hall, to the Central Hall, arches and tall emptiness and luxury and gold around him, to the House of Commons; nobody was there and he went to sit in the stand – "I ban you all for life!", he spoke loudly and it seemed a shout; he stood up and went on, by the Officer's Corridor until he arrived to a study, adjoined with the Librarian's Residence and a dining room away from the Clock Tower… There he was Mycroft, one of the few working, 'behold the true government' Sherlock thought and he had had similar thoughts before, Mycroft, Managerial Executive Consultant in State Affairs (which meant in everything), yes, a something consultant or consulting something just like him.

- "Ah!" Mycroft said always willing to show off before his brother, not turning around. – "The prodigal son returns!"

- "Really Mycroft, receiving me with clichéd lines? Besides I return where?" Mycroft then rolled in his chair so his eyes could meet him. – "To Westminster?, was this our father's home, ours?"

- "Fine, fine, you're right; it was very vulgar of me. Besides it would also be wrong because you never left our home to become independent, our parents died."

- ""Our parents died", really Mycroft, that's cold even for me, for you!, you say it just like that, in New Year!"

- "Oh! Calm down Sherlock! You're being frivolous."

- "Am I?", he didn't really ask. He separated his arms straight from his body and flopped them back down again. – "Where is the parliament? Where is the Queen? Is she here? You know, I have never asked, is her robing room where she changes robes?"

- "You know very well that it isn't. Why do you want to know where's the Queen? Do you have a request of some sort? Is she in danger?"

- "No, no; although I must confess I have always had an itch to see what she does in her privacy."

- "Are you in love with her or something?" Mycroft splayed a hand signaling the vacant chair at the other side of his desk; Sherlock sat down as he replied.

- "Why? Has she told you anything? Is she interested? Does she want to go to bed with me?"

Mycroft looked at his brother; he was always fit but now he was also artificially thin, with cocaine thinness, dark eye-rings. – "I doubt it."

Sherlock shrugged. – "I came only to visit you. Wish you a happy 1891. A decade from passing to another century… my, my!, time flies!"

Mycroft scowled and narrowed his eyes. – "I'll be there with you in a second." He lowered his head to restart writing. – "I'll give your idiocy some of my valuable time, but at least let me finish this letter; I'm cluttered with work!"

- "You always are." Sherlock half stood up, inclined over the desk to get his nose at letter's height. – "What is it about?"

Mycroft stopped and looked at him with an annoyed face. – "Please keep yourself behind an imaginary red line crossing the desk at the middle of its width." Sherlock smiled and sat back down, properly. – "It is a nonsense letter to repeat myself in saying I had allowed a Colonel Moran to leave for vacations. Can you believe this Sherlock?, what do I have to do with the vacation periods of military men?, how is that any of my concern? Yet they make this great scandal about being short-notice, how the Mahdist war had just ended, could we do without Moran when apparently he is the best at training our forces in the use of heavy weaponry…? They come to me… What do they want me to do? Sure! I said, whatever, there are others and we're not at war right now!"

Holmes shrugged and showed his palms, his lips making a pout, saying that way that he agreed. – "Poor Colonel Moran, seems to me like someone has a personal feud with him; not wanting to let him go on vacations during Christmas…"

And his brother seemed somehow even more irritated. – "What is wrong with you?, why are you being so sentimental? Christmas this, New Year that… Besides he issued his request on the 25th December, it is true that he left before the permission was granted, which is also part of the controversy, but while he crossed the English Channel… it was fast if he has arrived by the 29th."

- "Really, without permission? Well where is he going?"

- "Bruges…"

- "What?" Sherlock interrupted, bolted to sit upright.

Mycroft scowled and disconcerted stared at him. - "What?"

- "His destination."

- "Bruges Belgium?"

- "At what time was the permission requested?" He wasn't respecting the imaginary red line rule again, in fact he snatched the letter.

- "Sherlock!" Mycroft snatched it back. – "It doesn't say there. The request was registered the 25Th December at 9 a.m., I guess then he asked to leave about an hour before it."

- "Soldiers rise at six. Am I not right?" Mycroft only nodded in silence. "They train for an hour an hour and a half, papers arrive to people who want them such as me or you as early as seven… Brother mine I sense myself reaching the peak of my career, no!, I shouldn't jump to conclusions… Allow me to make you a question that will seem futile to you brother mine" Mycroft had his eyes wide on him during his murmured raving. - "Who goes to Bruges, Belgium?"

- "Colonel Moran." He very shockingly joked, when he was usually stoic and even more importantly there was a pressing matter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turned his head one side and then to Mycroft again. - "No!, no!" He insisted. - "Who goes to Bruges Belgium?"

- "Nobody. No other Englishman except for me would even know it exists. Who has family in Bruges?"

Holmes smacked the desk, and sat down relaxed again with a rude grin on his face. – "My dear brother you're stupid; how could you not know?"

- "Whatever do you mean?"

- "Alfie Gray…"

- "Who?"

- "I see, not interested even when he is the owner of G-Steel."

- "Is he? Well why would I care? We don't even import knives and whatever else they produce."

He smacked the desk again. – "Exactly! Brother, I'm a genius!"

- "If you say so Sherlock."

- "Well, where would I usually find Colonel Moran?"

- "At the Honorable Artillery Company Armoury."

- "Do you know if he keeps constant communication with anyone?"

- "My little little brother, I had only vaguely heard his name before this whole rumpus."

- "Could you intercept all telegrams arriving from Bruges to London, and vice versa, until he comes back?, without giving yourself or me, or the crown! away, to anyone!, nobody must know, but I need you to make sure the messages get to me too."

- " I guess I could, all telegrams from Bruges because he will be using an alias right?"

- "Doubtlessly, if he addresses himself at all. Can you describe him to me?, physically."

- "Yes of course. Around 5 feet 11 inches; strong built, very muscular, bulky, wide bone structure; square face with strong jaw, skin whiter than yours but less white than mine, opaque black hair cut very short, small blue eyes, irregular nose tending to be wide, it seems he is prone to clench his hands into fists for no good reason."

- "Yes, that will suffice. Dear brother, this was the most pleasant social visit I've ever made you."

Mycroft smiled and chuckled cut. – "Probably because it turned out to be anything but."

Sherlock stood up, padded his shoulder and left striding with as much arrogance and nonchalance as with which he had come in, only perhaps more content.

He had thought of making a shortcut, with the description of Colonel Moran getting to know about his communications, who he sent telegrams to; but he decided to wait, if he reported to anyone it meant that "anyone" was above him, or if he gave orders they would be incriminating: He was going to let the Alfie Gray affair guide him, it would be the most effective way and absolutely detectivishly fun.

* * *

**Aria **_if you come across this again, well I probably shouldn't thank you, but I liked your review, harsh and quite insulting but at least you actually told me something, you know; I repeat, anyone can tell me anything in reviews, alright? _

_And I'll even say that maybe you're right, as it is indeed always my problem when I write: I ask myself constantly, what is the right way to express this with all its meaning, causes, etc., without the use of metaphors, which I dislike very much; and then that brings me problems with ponctuation. But I do have to remark that I'm not trying to pass off as an intellectual, or trying to impress anyone ( I just try to write exactly what I have in mind... exactly).  
_

_Oh, and I just checked the information on Amanda McKittrick Ros on wikipedia. That's not fair!, I would never try to embellish needlework in such a way!, haha, (nor anything for that matter, it is "artistic" exageration which I despise most)._

_But yeah, I have listened, for the moment I'll just segment my long sentences and paragraphs through the use of good simple ponctuation, that should make my writing less complex to start with. Alright.  
_


	2. CHAPTER II AND III

II. TELEGRAM ACTION.

On the 4th of January he received it.

- "A telegram to this address madam, 221 Baker Street", he heard the voice acute and at the same time raspy from the pigeon, and adolescent no less; had he bothered to look out the street he would have also seen the zits on his face.

"Sun yesterday. Move Fr."

See that was easy to decode, or at least Holmes thought so and hoped he was right, not that it was essential, what was important was that the telegram was supposed to be arriving to the post office in Wellington to be picked up by a Mr. Kane.

He went there, hovered, he really didn't know what to do, how to know who was Mr. Kane without awaking his suspicion? The window for complaints was right beside the one where he should get his telegram; so he decided to pull his hat as much as he could over his face and make up one complaint after another, neither of which would be heated. – "I did not receive a letter that I should have at least the 28th of December, I live in 248 Great Wild Street… Yes go check, thank you… They sent it to me from Blomfield Road… No I don't know the number… Mmh… Yes, yes, I'm sure… How about one from Belsize Road?... Yeh, I didn't receive that one neither… For the 2nd… Yes go check, I'll wait, no problem." Until not too much time after Mr. Kane was showing silently his ID and Holmes was catching the "k" from the corner of his eye, when the employee said: -"From Bruges to Mr. Kane."

Mr. Kane seemed to be around 25 years old and that didn't adjust; yet he followed from a prudent distance to see him enter the gates to King's College. Afraid to lose him in the numerous turns of a college he lost the prudent distance and was close enough to hear him say to the guard outside one of the entrances (who was there as there are so often in colleges, so that no one steals nothing): - "I have a telegram for Moriarty at the office 78 of the Mathematics Department." And the guard let him go in. Now Holmes looked around the building, saw an open window…

A minute later he was going into King's College just like at Parliament, walking as if he was in his own rooms and he hadn't had his hat knocked off when the brim hit the window's frame, catching it in an impressive circus-agile shoot forward of his arm. He walked by the hall in front of office 78 which door was opened letting him see it was empty, he rounded the corner, took the problematic recovered hat off, and when no one was going by he used a very small mirror to look at the hall. It was by the mirror that he saw him entering his office; he yet wanted to make sure it was him so he walked by the hall and looked at Moriarty picking his papers sitting behind his desk, from the corner of his eye, the plaque before his desk "Moriarty"… It was the 4th of January, not many people were around and Moriarty knew all the teachers and administrative personnel there; he saw Holmes in a flash and didn't care much, yet he didn't forget his face and general demeanor.

"The Head" had thus a last name in his head, 'Moriarty'. He zealously wanted him to be the last link in the chain, or rather, didn't actually want it to end that soon, but intuition told him it was him the last link; through reason he also knew that Moran had only had about an hour to talk to his chief before requesting permission to depart, an hour… that was a fast decision, it couldn't have gone through many levels, and that Alfie Gray was clearly important.

He thought of having definite answers already, go behind Moriarty, never giving him a break; but that same January 4th he received another telegram, from the post office in Wellington Street to a hotel in Bruges.

"No problem: no com."

And getting more clues gave him certain quietude. There was also the fact that if Moriarty was "the head" he was certainly one with a big brain, and if when following him he was discovered he would be risking everything; so he decided to wait for more telegram evidence.

"You crossed my path on the 4th of January"; Moriarty would tell him later, in the sitting room, his own, that at Baker Street. And "On the 23d you incommoded me".

Holmes kept receiving the telegrams though it was obvious Moran wouldn't be in Bruges anymore, "move France", and too many people from general France spoke with people in London; but now he received all those that "Mr. Kane" sent and received from the post office at Wellington.

On the 15th January:

"MO like us Fr Ita; smells: Rez is happy. Trouble."

And the response:

"Huge moron. If you can't alone, send me the details by letter."

…

* * *

III. THE MATHEMATICIAN WITH THE THICK GLASSES AND THE YELLOW TEETH.

…

Now intercepting a letter that was different… he would have to open it and how to erase the trace of such violation?... Holmes hired a mathematician.

An actual mathematician from University College who turns out, was also "his biggest admirer" - so he said -. He stepped into his cubicle and introduced himself without further ado: - "Professor Connelly, - (the fact that Holmes had taken off his hat at that point and made it roll in the tips of his fingers before gripping it, only served to increase Mr. Connelly's fandom)- my name is Sherlock Holmes."

Professor Connelly gaped, his eyebrows arching over his thick glasses incredibly high; he gasped, he grinned, he stood up and rushed to him offering his hand. – "Sherlock Holmes! What an honor!" He shook his hand so enthusiastically. – "I'm your biggest admirer! What brings you over here? Crime at the University! Oh please do not say so!"

- "No, no, please do not worry. Am I right to think by what you say that you have read everything Watson has written about me? And so a lucid mind such as yours would remember that he made a list of my knowledge limitations."

- "Yes I do, I could even quote: Literature, Philosophy, Astronomy: nil; Politics: feeble; Botany: variable, well up in poisons, haha!, that made me crack!; Geology: practical but limited; Chemistry: profound; Anatomy: accurate but unsystematic; Sensational Literature: immense; you practice the violin, box, singlestick and sword, an expert he said; and good practical knowledge of British law. Hahaha!, how could the Doctor not be confused?, hahaha!"

- "Exactly!, exactly!" He said smiling to be conveniently nice. –"Now he didn't speak of mathematics but I'll let you guess."

- "Am I supposed to deduce it? Oh no!, I could never!"

- "No, no, you don't have to deduce, just guess."

Professor Connelly winced as if expecting a hit, hit that would be him not guessing correctly - "Nil?"

- "Exactly! Beyond elementary counts: adding, subtraction, multiplication and hardly good division, you lose me, I'm an absolute ignorant about mathematics."

- "Oh surely you exaggerate!, you're too humble; besides, you have other such great qualities!"

Holmes hurried to mollify Connelly's embarrassment, to be able to get to the point. - "Yes I don't doubt that, see I wasn't belittling myself. My point was and is, that I am in dire need of a mathematician, a good one; I have heard you're it."

- "Mr. Holmes I am so flattered!"

- "Do you know the work of Moriarty, his treatise upon the Binomial Theorem…?" His moving hand said it was an enumeration.

- "Absolutely I do! I have read everything he is done."

- "Perfect! Do you know Moriarty?, personally I mean."

- "No I haven't had the privilege."

- "Wonderful!" He rubbed his hands smiling, swung back and forward on his heels once. – "You soon will."

As he revealed to Professor Connelly that which he needed him to do, this one felt increasing jitters getting hold of him. Holmes assured him he should be safe as long as he didn't betray he had come to see him; he anyway gave him tips about how to be properly cautious, and if in danger or suspecting danger he only had to contact him.

So the post office would notify him when a letter to either Mr. Kane, office 78 or to the residence (which he now knew) of Professor Moriarty arrived to the Postal District. The letter was actually supposed to arrive to Wellington on the 23rd to be picked up by Mr. Kane. He sent a telegram to Connelly telling him it was time.

They saw the messenger "Mr. Kane" deliver the letter, a moment later Moriarty should have opened it. Connelly went to the Office of Personnel and insisted on talking with him: "no he wouldn't go to his office, he would get lost", "but somebody ought to tell him that he had refuted each and every point of his last work". Holmes waited…

A man arrived, stood at the door and said to Moriarty: - "There's a man at Personnel saying he has refuted your entire work, Connelly I think; he wants to see you."

– "What? !" He strode out and Holmes smirked.

He was right in suspecting Moriarty was proud about his work; he was enraged and distracted while discussing with Connelly, walking by the halls of the college, mathematic terms shouted. Holmes in a disguise whatever, during a particularly heated point of the dispute picked the letter from his coat's pocket, and Moriarty, who was pulling his own hair, didn't notice.

Away from them Holmes was smiling, unfolded the paper, lowered his head to begin reading it.

"om dgi dkqj kkajcnc emury iype gvvcpbgb qngpcrkmpq hp e ngmrjg ikjn yi y oytgq pqqug clf yp ypegjq kcpklq ecli qocnju ikjn pgx pm qrjct uca zwr tcxcpeg g mlqu yfgpg aqqvy hyognw ngxcu go rcikli rjco fqqvyicu sprkj hykp cetcgkglv lqr ygvfqsv wqst aqlucpr yykr amwp qpfctq"

- "What on earth?" He murmured. - "Damn mathematicians!" He was thinking he would only have to read it, but now he immediately took out pencil and paper and began to copy as fast as he could.

Moriarty didn't notice neither when one of the agile irregulars dressed as any student just as casually put it back. He returned to his office annoyed and with the firm conviction that Connelly, (despite what he had known before about the man) was utterly stupid, but oblivious of what had truly happened.

In Baker Street he felt his mind muddled; what was the solution to such a riddle? 'The letters substitute others' he thought and didn't congratulate himself, because sure, the letters substituted others and that took no genius to figure out; he sighed, rubbed his chin and turned the paper downwards and upwards again; he looked at the senseless text again with his mind blank and a grimace on his face. 'A mathematician would substitute a letter for another after a mathematical operation made with them'; so he took the ones that were alone: e, y, g; "e" was three letters away from "a"; "y" was harder, fifteen letters away from "I", let's not talk about "a"!, though now come to think about it, in reverse order it was one letter away from "a"; and then "g" in reverse order was one letter away from "I". He took then those with two letters: "yi", "pm", "go"; if he used the one letter away in reverse order they were: "ag" 'like Alfie Gray' he remembered; "nk", but if he followed the order of the alphabet for the "m" it could be "no"; "em", but if he did what he had done with the "m" for the "pm" with the first letter then he had "im" 'like in I'm' (the lack of punctuation was remarkable, so it was a given he had suppressed it). 'It is as if he skips one letter forward and then one letter back; which is a mathematical thing in the end, "y" plus two, "g" minus two.'

And so he used the skip one letter forward and back, the grimace gone from his face and his eyes shining, he got this:

"mo big fish michele costa gang extended operations fr c people kill ag a mario rossi and an angelo marino gang smells kill rez no other way but revenge I know where costa family lives im taking them hostages until fair agreement not without your consent wait your orders"

He bolted upright in his chair with a big grin, he was seeing (as any not-stupid person would) this:

"Mathéo Olivier is one of the big fishes of the Michele Costa gang which just extended their operations to France. Costa's people killed Alfie Gray, specifically a Mario Rossi and an Angelo Marino. Costa's gang smelled something fishy and they killed Rez. There's no other way but revenge; I know now where Costa's family lives; I'm taking them as hostages until a fair agreement is reached, but not without your consent. I wait for your orders."

Holmes was just as soon that same day in the post office at Wellington Str., sending a telegram to Moran in Italy.

"Do not question me, just move to St. Petersburg immediately."

By the time when Moriarty's answer by letter had arrived, he had received in turn a telegram from St. Petersburg saying:

"Here, what am I to do?"

A lot of wary communications were exchanged before they understood they were still talking to each other and that someone was onto them, someone who didn't want Costa's family to be taken as hostages. Holmes had heartily cackled reading their messages and Mrs. Hudson suspected he had changed drug to one that clouded his judgment and made him happy, more than hyperactive and paranoiac before plunging into lethargy.

* * *

_I changed facts about Moriarty because this is a fic and a hobby and one can do what one wants._

_I know the code was easy, but I just didn't want to spend hours codifying something with too complicated counts, and then again, let's remember they didn't think anyone would really get to see that letter, so in my mind, they also didn't complicate themselves when they didn't see the need of it... ha, you know, whatever._

_And__ well, if you people out there signed in or not don't review because you don't like what I do, this is your opportunity to vent, I have a morbid curiosity to even hear insults from you; now if you don't review because you think "whatever", then it's alright, I can do without reviews.  
_


	3. CHAPTER IV AND V

_I'm sorry, it is crime all over again people._

* * *

IV. BLACK FEBRUARY

"By the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you."

By the time they knew someone was reading their messages it was the 5th of February and Moriarty didn't remember what had happened the 23rd of January; he made an effort, traced back the days in Monday, Tuesday, Wednes… mode, until he remembered Connelly. Who was Connelly?, why (if he was) was he setting him a trap?, what was his link with Costa?, or the police perhaps. They had to tiptoe around him; any obvious tentative to silence him, or know who was behind would only be providing more evidence to incriminate Moriarty. Joshua Burns had the honor to receive instructions directly from the head because Moran was gone: he had to figure out all about Connelly.

Now, how was Moriarty supposed to communicate effectively with Moran?, letters were slow, there was no chance of proving which telegram was genuine from one that this impostor could send, sending codes by telegram was risky because it screamed "crime" to all telegraph operators, and it wasn't even guaranteed that whomever had cracked their most common code wouldn't crack a more difficult one; Moriarty had to send one last instruction:

"Negotiate, appease, do what you think is right".

Unfortunately, for Moran to cede anything at all wasn't part of negotiating; he was hot-tempered and rancorous, and "do what you think is right" for him could easily mean igniting a war; besides, Holmes sent all the information he had to the authorities in France, Italy, Germany, Belgium, with the names Alfie Gray, Mathéo Oliver, Mario Rossi, Michele Costa and Angelo Marino there; so Moriarty wasn't losing henchmen only to the guns of the rival gang in the unofficial war of the criminal empires, but they were also being arrested, or in suspicion of being persecuted running away and out of the scope, his whole operation in "the continent" disintegrating already by the middle of February.

'What was Moriarty to do without Moran?', Holmes asked himself; he followed Moriarty in a disguise but Moriarty wasn't so unsuspecting anymore; he took turns, lost him sometimes, had several messengers and he changed from post office, used different names to get in touch with Joshua Burns, with him by letter, which he wrote right in the post office, sealed it there, and so Holmes missed that.

The notification about a second letter arrived to him, and Holmes, not having prevented this one, not even being sure of the value of its contents, sent only an irregular to pick it from his pocket while he walked by the street before he burnt it once in his house. He saw the scene from behind the corner, it happened around the middle of February: His irregular picked it professionally and Moriarty turned on his heel, trapping his wrist (Holmes's eyes widened). – "Who are you? !" He screamed at the boy, looming dangerously over him. – "Who sent you? !" Nothing occurred to Holmes but screaming: - "Help! Police!", and the three of them spread running in different directions before Moriarty realized there hadn't been any police around.

Either way, Holmes hadn't gotten the letter and Moriarty now knew himself permanently observed. He knew his business and he could only conclude Sherlock Holmes had finally found him. He respected him, out of respect, and as a daring too, he would go after him unless there came a time when Holmes finally had the opportunity to get conclusive proofs against him, which he doubted.

The letter was Joshua Burns reporting there was nothing to Connelly.

V. THE ATTACK OF THE GUM

"At the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans."

Moran came back in the middle of March, feverish, having taken a bullet in his shin and with the scar of a knife wound where his liver would be; he wasn't likely to take his place as an intermediary anytime soon. Cautiously cut off as he was, Moriarty didn't know of his return until next day, after Joshua Burns had gone to see Moran. Now Holmes was following Burns and all the hits in London being predicted even if he didn't have proof of Moriarty ordering them; by the end of March the gang stopped making all minor moves because Joshua Burns was arrested.

The gang was in temporary disarray but they had laws and by the end of the first week of April it reassembled with new leaders. Who were the new leaders wasn't much of a mystery to Holmes; those two weeks of following Burns had also meant he had gotten to study the gang well, all members until then eliminated he yet knew who followed in rank.

A crime they were planning was much too sophisticated, the hand of Moriarty clear in it because it was along the lines of carefully concealed fraud: Documents with ciphers about the received interests from big and small loans were to arrive on Monday 27th of April to the bank, all together in a bunch; they were going to falsify the documents with distorted numbers and terms and steal the exceeding amount. The variability of the rate, the different individual conditions offered and the fact that they had no tight control over small loans (even when the joint amount was of course greater than that of some big loans), would make it easy for the alterations to remain unnoticed for a long time if not for forever.

For a while Holmes didn't know Moriarty was planning it, because it had proved futile and when effective horribly dangerous following him; but in the planning of one such crime was where he committed the actual "trip", related with the "flaw" about not being able to keep isolated. Moriarty had been informed about the future documents before his infiltrated in the banking system had fallen down with everyone else in March. It was a genius idea; Moriarty was one of the very few people who could have known the future nature of those documents, the problem was that he still needed to recollect some of the data, and when two of his toughs didn't bring him everything that he needed, he lost his furious head and so one night he sneaked himself into the bank.

Holmes didn't know what he was stopping when he knew some of their henchmen were supposed to replace some papers for others posing as post office employees in Ireland and he was there to recover the originals; that was on the 19TH of April and Moriarty was blanching with all kinds of negative emotions when he heard the ill news. Holmes was back in London the 22nd and immediately went to the bank where Moriarty's infiltrated used to be, looking for a trace and to his very pleasant and great surprise finding it: a very small piece of Moriarty's personal paper from the college stuck to the floor with a bit of gum; he had Clarkie come to testify about his finding before unsticking it to keep it as evidence. That same day he sneaked into Moriarty's - at the moment empty - residence with another officer, so it could be testified that a shoe was found there with a piece of equal type of paper stuck to its sole with the same kind of gum… they took the shoe as evidence too.

Moriarty arrived home and went to bed, then woke up and realized his shoe was gone and all Holmes had done unveiled in a second before his eyes: He realized with dismay that it was then impossible stopping the papers (the real evidence of their crime now) from arriving the 27th to the bank unless he wanted to implicate himself in other crimes that would anyway be discovered, and the only way to solve his problems was: 'I'll have to do away with Holmes.'

And that is why Moriarty showed in Holmes' rooms, taking him by surprise the 23th of April of 1891.

* * *

_For those who care Watson will be here in our next chapter; for those of you who were liking all about crime, I'm sorry, Watson will be here in our next chapter._


	4. VI BRUSSELS

VI. BRUSSELS.

The door opened, Holmes turned his head to it and startled, thought himself a dead man, took the gun that was anyways in the table right by his side and a tall Moriarty began speaking with as much serenity and regal ways there would ever be: - "'You crossed my path on the 4th of January, on the 23d you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty." Holmes was in his olive dressing gown sitting by the table where he had been enjoying breakfast, the hand with the elbow on the table now pointing the still gun to his visitor. - "I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair… You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot." Holmes pretty much told him, sniffing and scratching his shoulder, actually pretending as much cold blood as he could, trying for his hand not to shake, that he didn't mind for his grand statements. - "It seems a pity, but I have done what I could."

Moriarty closed the door at his back and Holmes sighed in mortal fear; he saw him get away by the window, heard his own heart like an African drum checking around the house that no mortal trap had been set; sat down on the couch rubbing his palpitating temples, and he decided there was one last thing he wanted to do before he died.

"Come to the Continent with me Watson".

He lied to him, he said that at midday of the day before he went to transact a business in Oxford Street when a two-horse van tried to run over him, but the truth was that he wasn't going to Oxford Street, he was going to Watson's place and all had happened in a different location; he kept to the pavement after that and someone threw a brick on him, but he didn't call the police (as he said just so that Watson wouldn't be on him about it); but he did spend the night in Mycroft's rooms in Pall Mall, all scared and deciding he should warn him; and indeed that day he had finally arrived to Watson's he was attacked by a big guy with a bludgeon, which he dodged and in time could luckily knock the aggressor down.

Upon his entrance Holmes closed the blinds, stood away from the window and instructed Watson through gestures to imitate him. It was almost three months since Watson had last seen him, and in his agitation the signs from his cocaine thinning and lack of sleep were jumping to the sight, he looked positively crazed.

- "You are afraid of something?"

- "Well, I am."

- "Of what?"

- "Of air-guns."

He stood Watson's gaze as this one paced calmly, staring him up and down.

- "Is Mary in?"

- "No, she's out, but she'll be back by tomorrow."

After Holmes explained the situation to him Watson flopped down on his armchair there, dejected. - "You don't think they can kill you do you?" Holmes shrugged uncaringly in response and Watson gaped. - "What kind of way is that of taking your possible death? !" He welded his jaws; but then continued. – "I'm sorry… What are you going to do?"

- "Come to the Continent with me."

- "Where?, for how long?"

- "Oh, anywhere. It's all the same to me."

It wasn't necessary that he said for how long; with a royal countenance Watson gave a short nod.

Holmes gave him instructions in a long fast strain, and then Watson accompanied him to the back of the house, and he was seeing him climbing the brick wall above bushes in the backyard to leave, to the sound of crickets, without knowing it was much more to impress him with drama than for any actual use of the strategy.

In their first class carriage there was never an Italian old priest, or a Holmes disguised as an Italian old priest; Watson wasn't really a good writer (though he knew how to please the masses), and had written that he hadn't recognized Holmes in that disguise to have an spectacular excuse to talk about his anxiety when the train was about to depart and his friend hadn't yet showed up. In fact, it was until the train started movement that the dark wood varnished door opened and Holmes showed his dark gray hatted head.

- "Oh my god Holmes!" Watson exclaimed breathy, and after that he felt stress-free enough to light the cigar that he had been edgy holding in his hand during the wait; the flame lit up with the hard-hitting sound of friction against sandpaper accompanied with the clack of the door-knob turning and the wood of the door meeting that of its frame. – "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come; that I'd have to throw myself out the window, that small one there." He signaled the one. The window was divided in four crystals and the two lower ones were the largest but couldn't be opened.

Holmes smiled. – "You're so charming Watson." He complemented sincerely. He went close to that top glass and sized it with his sight. – "You're right; you would fit. You know Watson it is a sign of a strong will that you haven't become fat after getting married; oh I remember you gained a few pounds during the first months, but you did your best to get your lithe figure right back am I not right?" And then he leered. - "And to keep it."

Watson's face crooked into what could have been a smile if pulled a little bit upper, something like a single chuckle in his throat. – "Well to tell you the truth I've always fretted over what you may think of me; probably because in fact all you do is most impolitely rub my own thoughts in my face."

Holmes gave him a sidelong glance, still standing facing the long window. – "I do that?"

- "You know Holmes you should make an effort to hide better what you think… You think insults way too often."

Holmes laughed and Watson had to smile.

He finally sat down - though it was at an unremarkable first class bench - like a king on his throne; leg crossed, arms stretched along the top of the back. – "The Continent Watson, we're going to the Continent together, you and me only like in the old times; hasn't that been your dream for ages?"

Watson raised his left eyebrow, answered as if a bit disdainful. – "No."

- "Ha!... Bad liar."

You know the story (if you don't it's not that important), how they evaded Moriarty who was yet after them at the station, and what they had to do; then they were in Brussels. On the way to the hotel where they'd stay they passed by the Grand Place; Watson ogled at it in wonder but made no comment, it was when they were settling, or more like dropping, the few possessions they still had with them that Holmes decided to indulge him.

- "Hey Watson you know what's great over here?"

- "What?"

- "The gueuze".

- "What on earth is that?"

- "Beer, fruit beer, this is a beer city Watson, we cannot skip it."

- "Even when you are in mortal danger you want to get drunk…" It was somewhat a reproach and somewhat a statement that he was amused by Holmes's incorrigibility; not that Holmes got drunk that often, in fact, Watson was more of a drunk than him, but debauchery in general was good with them both.

- "I am not in mortal danger, we've lost them at least for today, and tomorrow I'd guess. Watson this could be my last gueuze." And he smirked.

Watson raised a warning index finger. – "I swear Holmes, that's not funny." Holmes had been lying across the bed with his feet on the floor; at that he reincorporated again and dismissed his partner in non-crime with a wave of his hand. Watson pitied him, because despite they were in dishonorable terrified fugue it was supposed to be fun, and he wasn't helping; he gave in: – "Besides I doubt you've ever had a "gueuze" in your whole life."

- "You're still mad about the loss of your luggage?"

- "You know I'm not talking about that. Besides I'm not mad, I just… don't laugh, I don't know what to wear, I need to take a bath."

But Holmes did laugh, he went to sit on the contrary edge of the bed on which Watson was sitting too, and they were facing each other by both turning their heads right. – "You're soon not going to be able to take a bath… ever, this isn't a comfort travel… listen, no matter what you wear you'll always look the same you know, my handsome friend."

Watson stood up purposefully ignoring him. –"Whatever, I'm taking a bath."

- "And then gueuze and a quiet stroll by the Grand-Place, that one with the beautiful buildings we passed on the way here."

Watson didn't smile but agreed. – "Perfect."

They were both holding big jars of gueuze as they slowly promenaded themselves arm in arm by the plate (I don't know if in those times at Belgium public drunkenness was forbidden but I'm gonna guess it wasn't). Holmes signaled the buildings, - "Gothic. Neo-gothic.", he said. – "You know they rebuilt this after 1840, because it was bombed in the war."

- "How do you know that? You usually know nothing."

Holmes shrugged, took five big gulps from his giant cup of gueuze. – "The moment I knew I'd ask you to come with me, I asked Mycroft for useful facts on the possible sites we would station; that's all around Europe and even Asia, but I remember quite a few. Although in my defense I did know this. But maybe later I'll be too knowledgeable; see I knew you'd enjoy it best if I told you something interesting."

- "I see… I actually do."

- "You are too high maintenance."

- "Look! Statues!" He jog trotted nearer to them and made some of Holmes's own beer splutter over his face and vest when detaching. Holmes cleaned that on his face with light pads of his sleeve and reached up to him. – "Let's see, what does it say? Dukes and Duchesses of Brabant, 203 of them! Impressive, very impressive wouldn't you say Holmes?"

Actually Holmes wasn't pretending aloof anymore, he observed the building in innocent awe. - "Yes, very beautiful." Watson smiled looking at his staggered profile and felt like kissing his cheek.

Holmes finally turned, looked around. - "This whole space used to be a market."

- "Let's go sit."

- "Oh, alright then."

It was cold but it wasn't colder than London, to them it was comfortably warm; people paraded by while they sat at the edge of the sidewalk, all going to their homes or some place in specific, scanting as time went by. They entangled arms from time to time, even put their head on each other's shoulder; it was late and they looked like two drunks and no one cared about them.

- "What do you think of Brussels so far?" Holmes asked.

- "Small."

- "Indeed."

- "Economically lower than London."

- "Certainly."

- "I would get bored in a few days."

- "Really?" Holmes reacted with obvious unease.

And Watson repaired: - "I am certainly not bored now."

- "Oh."

- "What do you want to do later?"

- "Well it's very late, we should probably go back to the hotel."

Watson smirked. – "At the hotel I meant."

- "Oh." Holmes ducked his head looking at his beer, smiled. He straightened his neck, still smiling: - "Well you certainly know the answer to that."

Watson's smirk widened. – "Well how about specifics…"

Holmes smiled to him for a while, his eyes scintillating; then no one was looking and in a flash Holmes kissed his lips. – "It's been so long I could come right now." With that they both went into companionable giggles.

Watson was a little bit insane. He was double-timing without regret, if Holmes burnt their rooms it gave him a rush instead of annoying him; if an intelligent killer was caught he felt sorry for him, but let it happen with joy because it was Holmes who had trapped him; when Holmes brought a whore home to make him jealous it instead made him laugh; nobody alive knew that he had been a coward during war, 'every man for himself' he thought in each mishap; he had taken a bullet for Holmes but as he fell down to the floor thought in shock: 'what did I just do?'; when Holmes had let his strings loose he hadn't thought twice about beating the hoods to a pulp; he had become a doctor in a fixation to treat wounds; Mary reminded him of a bird, and so then of a nest, and it made sense making a home with her; he had made an awful sketch of Holmes's naked body, awful because he couldn't draw, and he looked at it all the time; when he was a kid one of his favorite games were paper birds and one of the happiest moments of his life was when throwing one at Holmes' face, this one took it, improved the model, made another, and took him to the street so that they watched them fly. If he liked comparing Holmes with a machine was because he liked machines, he found few things more inspiring. – "Don't you think a thing like this, but bigger, could one day function and us fly in it?"

- "Of course Watson. In fact I don't doubt that it will exist."

- "Any eggs in the nest Watson?"

- "No. What an ordeal!, my wife is infertile!"

- "Hahahahaha! Well that should teach you…"

* * *

_There you go. What Moriarty said is in the 'the final problem' so it is a bit of the dialog when Holmes goes to Watson's; but it must be so, because I'm changing it but not really, you know..._


	5. VII BRUSSELS II

VII. BRUSSELS II.

They entered to the Hotel, Holmes staggering a bit, certainly more than Watson, Watson was walking almost elegantly.

They sat on the bed and Watson caressed Holmes's face, which didn't reflect a clear conscience. – "My dear Holmes, you can't take your alcohol."

Holmes laid a hand heavily on his shoulder, lowered his head and turned to face the door, then his head turned to the bathroom's door, Watson took the opportunity to kiss the end of his jaw. As Watson hugged his waist Holmes said: - "You didn't come to see me in Christmas, or New Year."

- "I did."

Holmes turned around then, observed him with drunken eyes and put the tips of three fingers on his moustache, palpating it. – "You did?"

Watson took his wrist and put his hand on his chest instead, to be able to speak. – "Yes I did. You were high my friend. I left you notes both times to invite you come to my house and apparently you didn't see neither of them."

- "How could I miss that?" Holmes mumbled in drunken confusion. – "I never miss anything."

Watson pulled him back with him to lie down in the bed, and caressed his hair until he fell asleep.

It was three in the morning when Holmes woke up again, feeling much more lucid, the objects had sharp edges again, even in the night. He took off his shirt, and pants, and underwear. They were under the bedcovers, which had obviously been Watson's doing; Watson sleeping only with his brown thick pants on was also Watson's doing. Sitting on his side, looking down at him, Holmes pressed his fingertips on the left side of Watson's stomach, sliding his fingers slowly until his palm touched it, awakening him. When Watson finally opened his eyes, on his face, Holmes gifted him a gentle small smile. – "Watson", he murmured. Watson wrapped his waist and pulled him down on him, put a hand on his jaw as he kissed him. It was an uninterrupted kiss and they soon started breathing agitatedly. Their heads shifted up and down, to one side and another. Watson slid his hand to put it on Holmes's left buttock. They continued kissing non-stop and soon they were moaning quietly. Watson pushed to feel more sharply Holmes's hipbone digging into his erection. Holmes separated to rid of those pants, in hasty urgency, with trembling hands; when he was done Watson trapped his shaking hands between his and kissed them, but Holmes took them away with equal fever, plunging to kiss him again. They ensnared each other in their arms, until their stomachs bumped together when they exhaled, the touch torn when they inhaled. Something happened, - Holmes was too rapt in his own sensations to know what -, something that made Watson moan higher, breaking the kiss. Holmes took his throbbing erection in his hand, rubbed it and Watson wiggled erotically in response. Holmes plunged again to lick his neck, long and extendedly like a cat, pecked and licked again, lower, going by his collarbone; then lower again with the back of his tongue, getting to his nipple, which he tapped with the tip, coddled with a sucking kiss; he continued carefully wetting his ribs, gnawing the lower one like a dog the taste of the last of a bone; he laid gentle kisses on that side of his sinking stomach; Watson's moans had been sweet, making his chest flutter once and again. He reincorporated to look down at him again, concentrating his pumping strokes on the head of his cock. Watson opened his heavy lidded eyes to look at him, Holmes's narrowed a bit more if possible in response, he began to clash his own erection against the high side of his thigh; he inclined to gently kiss his lips again, continued apart as before. Watson turned his head to one side, his nose to Holmes's shoulder; Holmes bent his neck to sink his nose behind his jaw and ear; each respective part of their bodies received the steam from their breaths, rooting pleasant chills. Their pleasure was great but Watson wanted more, not for him but for Holmes, he wanted him to see explosions behind his eyelids when he lied with him; so he suddenly turned and then put both his fingers into his own anus. - "Wait" Holmes breathed, taking his hand away with a loose caring grip on his wrist; he substituted his fingers with his own, preparing him more delicately, kissing his nape and his cheek repeatedly, testifying Watson's anxiety; and so not making him wait long he took his cock in his hand to guide it, pushed the head inside, pushed in, bit by bit. The heat and pressure of it made him close his eyes, relish in ecstasy, stay paralyzed for a moment while he enjoyed it precisely. Watson raised his hips from the bed bumping with Holmes, demanded that way that he started sliding in and out; Holmes obeyed, emitting a high moan when he did; he immediately kissed Watson's ear and welded his open mouth to his. The rhythm was faulty, that is, it kept mutating, in that way the sensation was a novelty each time, it was a language. In a particularly strong stab Watson accidentally bit his tongue, making him bleed, but neither gave a damn; Holmes slid his bleeding tongue over the corner of his mouth, tainted his moustache red. Watson heard Holmes was about to reach orgasm and he tensed his body for no good reason, gaped larger when he felt Holmes's ejaculation. When Holmes barely regained some minimal control over himself he wanted Watson to go with him, so he pulled his shaft three times and had what he wanted; they were both for a while on a high together. Watson's spine arched tight like a string, the tension seemed almost painful and Holmes caressed the low of his back, as if alleviating it. After a moment of delight, though it wasn't yet drained out, Watson turned around and pursed his mouth around Holmes's upper lip, parted his legs so that he could find his comfortable place lying between them, let him breath almost in sobs above his shoulder. Had he not been sure Watson would laugh, he would have cried as he wanted to, of passion, of desperation, of soaring bliss which could only come with the notion that he was reaching the point of no return.

When Watson had fallen asleep Holmes couldn't take it anymore, he sat with his back to the head of the bed and looking at him and sometimes at the starry night sobbed quietly, wiping the tears from his face with the heel of his hand over and over again. When Watson woke up there was no trace of it, Holmes's sleeping face was almost against his own and his arm draped across his back, his inner thigh over his buttocks. Watson kissed the tip of his nose to wake him up, pushed his knee down so that his ass would be liberated. Holmes was at the moment reluctant to wake up, he hugged Watson against him and pressed his forehead to his pectoral, wanting them both to go back to sleep. To Watson it was all the same, they slept for another forty minutes.

Next time it was Holmes who woke up. He hugged Watson tighter and combed his hair with his fingers, playfully brushed his upper lip against his moustache; Watson darted his tongue out to kiss him; they kissed for long and finally smiled at each other, their hearts light.

- "What are we doing today?" Watson asked and kissed him again.

- "Whatever you want." Holmes spoilt him and kissed him again. – "What do you want to do?"

- "Walk by Brussels, have breakfast outside, meet a native."

- "Yes."

Holmes was willing to spend all of his money in this spree, regaling Watson with all the world could offer, with everything that he wanted. When Watson found out he had him buy him clothes, not custom made because there was no time, but expensive clothes that the tailor, overpaid, would hurry to have them fixed for him by nighttime, so that they fit him like a glove and he looked like a male mannequin; in that way also Holmes was making up for the lost luggage.

They both inclined their heads right to look at the Manneken Pis perplexed; it was dressed like an angel. – "What do you think of this sculptural piece?" Holmes asked.

- "I'm not sure what to think. On one hand it is small and ugly… on the other hand it is pissing; I appreciate the sardonic style of it."

- "I say the one who made it was a pedophile."

- "Probably."

- "We know that all the pedophiles are in the church."

- "Absolutely. Hey!, by the way how is that pedophile priest, Hendrix that you put in jail?"

- "He's fine. I brought him his stash of pedophile porn."

- "Holmes!"

Holmes shrugged. – "He can't do no harm no more. If he wants to look at his porn I say that's fine."

- "You do realize those kids in that porn were victims?"

- "The harm is done."


	6. VIII BEWARE THE TOWERS

VIII. BEWARE THE TOWERS

After that day they made it to Strasbourg.

Watson in his recount of the facts invented a whole story about how they had received a telegram in their hotel, by which the police told them everyone had been apprehended except Moriarty who had escaped, and that Holmes told him to leave to London because he was now a dangerous companion and he had said no; the truth was that Holmes knew that Moriarty would escape, that he was after them, that all was fatal as in fate, a resolution outside the limits of order was due to take place, unexpected or thrilling, dry or anguishing but never in the realm of a formally "happy-ending", if it was happy for him it wouldn't be happy for Moriarty and now Holmes without Moriarty was no one, he would get high in such quantities and so many days and hours following that he would end up killing himself soon anyway… But it was his duty to have finally Moriarty fall down, at whatever cost. What happened in Strasbourg was that Holmes confessed to him, when they were in the "salle-à-manger":

- "Watson I was thinking… It is my guess that Moriarty wants to kill me and only me and yet I cannot assure it, I cannot assure you that you're not in danger. Do you want to stay or do you want to go back to London? I am truly asking you, you may do what you want; I would in fact recommend you that you go back Watson… Go back."

Watson wrapped the hand of a Holmes who suddenly was about to have a nervous crisis, have his things thrown from the window of their hotel room so that he would leave. He elegantly cleaned his mouth with the fabric napkin. – "Of course I'm not going back; I've barely met Strasbourg, and I just want to go back to La Petite France. Then where are we going?" Holmes shrugged. – "Whatever, I'm sure I'll love it."

They had already seen the Cathedral of Our Lady. – "Gothic", Holmes had said.

- "I could have guessed that."

And after the meal again they had walked by La Petite France, now standing in the Ponts Couverts, between the second and the third tower; sandstone had never been used so successfully, so well employed to create a certain ambiance, one that spoke of the people there, and their delusions, of what they wanted and could believe reality was. Holmes and Watson were staring down at their reflections in the water, with the soil and the profundity and sun inflection that made it look green. - "It was in a place like this that Alfie Gray was killed", Holmes said, with certain solemnity.

Watson looked at him intrigued; wanting them both to laugh though, he grimaced in confusion: - "What?"

Holmes did smile, but only weakly. – "Alfie Gray, the head of the Continent's division of Moriarty's gang… It is his death that brought me to him… Thanks to his death, more criminals than I or Britain could ever kill have died, to each other's hands."

- "Oh, I see."

The calm water of the river Ill had only temperate undulations.

- "You know Watson, I don't believe in justice."

Watson stared at him incredulous. – "But Holmes… you are the principal tool of our British justice system, dear Lord!"

- "I only try for other people not to get hurt, that's my only objective; one less person hurt is one less criminal, because Watson I know criminals… Sometimes they just want justice outside the system, a true one." He sneered: "I've even been involved in political crimes!... I wish I hadn't been so egocentric, I wish I hadn't taken some cases just because I'd have yet again a chance to prove to myself and to everyone just how smart I am, because they would entertain me?... I wish I had thought of them, of Lockhart who laid dynamite in the embassy…" He continued after a pause, his sneer fading away. – "So often, their thirst for vengeance has only the whole extent of the harm that was done to them. A single person in a few aggressions, in the hatred from one single another or immersed in hostility, in misunderstanding and loneliness… they can in a single strike experience the strength that all the world's hatred could lash…" He shook his head, the sneer wanting to come back. – "Watson it always starts with someone who has done nothing wrong. We are abusive by nature, I! have insulted less intellectually endowed people; it is enough with that, with someone being stupid or extraordinarily physically disagreeable, or with an obvious defect, an abomination from nature but an innocent one, guiltless… Suffering is great all around, all around. Ask yourself the lives of how many criminals have been hell before they could even decide for wrong or right, and not because they were children but because sometimes there is no possible choice. I'm killing a human being soon, I don't have a choice. The earthy hell that so many, not you and me, not my brother, not Mary, oh no!, we're good-looking, we're confident, we're privileged, we surround ourselves with everything good; but so many others live under this… abrasive horror!, and they endure it because the human being has this… pathetic! instinct to attach to life even when it isn't worth it! And the earthly hell is perpetuated, it perpetuates all on itself through these, in essence, innocent people, like a perfectly stable motor… There are such horrible lives in this world Watson! God for the meek my ass!, the meek can eat shit or dirt!, their decision entirely!… If I finish them, if I do is only because I don't want any more damage… Watson I don't want any more damage!" He covered his face as he grimaced, his mouth opening in the parody of short screams; the water was now blurrily reflecting his tense hands.

- "Holmes" Watson murmured, giving a step closer to him. – "Holmes what's going on? What are you not telling me?"

Holmes uncovered his face and looked at him, tortured. – "I don't want to live anymore."

They had to go back to the Hotel, Holmes guiding by the arm a weeping Watson that couldn't see clear.

"I'm sorry", he repeated in their room. – "I'm sorry Watson I don't know what I was saying; I don't feel like myself, I'm depressed."

- "But why? ! We were having such a wonderful day!"

"Pay no heed Watson, I'm sad today; it should be a passing mood I'm sure." – "Listen Watson, I didn't mean it. I'm not dying, no one is dying but Moriarty…" but his sentence was broken, his face snapped to the left, his scowling lines engraving in his face painfully, his jaw sliding a bit forward; something about the perspective of a world without Moriarty had appeared in his mind through loose words and isolated images: it was something quite like sheer void…

Watson lost his temper; in what to anyone else in the scene would have been funny except for them, he hurled his glove at Holmes's face. – "What is it with you and this fucking professor? ! I hope you both die as it is your wish!" But immediately he almost strangled Holmes in his arms, repented from his words breathless. – "Oh God I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it Holmes, I didn't mean it. Please don't let yourself die, don't… We're going to have such a great time tomorrow."

…

That night they headed south for Geneva. Holmes settled them in a first class cabin of a passenger's steam boat already known for having a first class first class, so that they would cruise pleasantly by the Rhône River, admire the Alps and the strong current.

There was a chasm of nothing separating them. Watson hadn't even noted all the wonderful embellishments of their cabin when entering, hadn't been aware of the unusual welcoming softness of the mattress when sitting down (being him the only one of them both that could appreciate unnecessary comfort; Holmes could convince himself of being just as well sleeping over wet naked ground; sometimes he forced himself to suffer). Then he had tried to rest in a good mood all morning, smiling more than he should, making jokes that were no longer good, and now the muscles of his cheeks and his brain were tired; 'go to the devil' he had thought against a Holmes that was obliging him to be that ridiculous.

Conversation never died away between them, not even then, but each resented a tension that was mutual, something about the subjects of conversation coming up only to quiet down what was unspoken.

Then after three days they sat silently on a bench at the stern of the vessel; it was night and they were looking different tones of blue, gray and that much that was black, and the foamy revolted water the vessel left behind, its white almost seeming to shine when all else was unidentifiable. No one was around and Watson took the hand of a Holmes that was always brooding, the intangible distance between them narrowing a bit when Holmes reacted by pressing his hand affectionately and interspersed their fingers, not that his index and thumb from the other one would ever stop supporting his face in an intelligent pensive gesture, and his stare was lost.

Watson stared at him, moved his head to get sight of some of the other half of Holmes's, returned and looked at their joined hands, tried then to know what Holmes was looking at and imagine what he was thinking, but there was nothing out there, and his constant movements and obvious scrutinizing weren't getting his attention; so he tried a more direct approach: - "I am dying to make love to you tonight."

'You don't make love to me' Holmes thought. – "Me too. But can we rest here some more time?"

- "Sure." Watson answered simply.

A couple of hours later Watson was over Holmes, penetrating him with a lustful predatory gaze on his face. Holmes clenched his jaws, believing there was no need for paradise in the afterlife since he was experiencing it now, no need for a divinity, because some human acts, such as this, were as much divinity as a man could take. He was thinking even as Watson thrust in and out in long movements, that in moments such as this he could trick himself into believing him and Watson were each other's, truly meant to be instead of a fleeting coincidence.

When they were done, and yet he was seeing that up to three hours after neither could sleep, Watson opted for conversing; the fact that they were naked in bed and it was 3 in the morning, an hour of debauchery all on itself, resting over a moving surface on which they were floating, floating over deep waters in what seemed a "country far away", made him speak of grave things much more than conviction. - "You have never forgiven me, have you?"

Holmes slid his arm beneath his neck and attracted his head, so that he would be lying on his chest again. – "Forgive you? My dear Watson what for?"

- "For marrying Mary."

Holmes's other hand dismissed it, a brief low grunt. – "There's nothing to forgive."

- "Homes I'm speaking honestly."

- "So am I. You aren't mine Watson, you aren't Mary's. I'm all on my own."

With his hand on Holmes's chest Watson reincorporated to frown down at him, complain with an adorable pout. – "Is that what you brought me here for? To tell me you're lonely without remedy. Poor Holmes!, he's so depressed because the world is not good enough for him! What did the Gods think when letting one of them come down to live between us? ! Let optimist Watson undo himself trying to make him conform!, he is pure and will not be broken!"

- "You are ranting."

- "So what? ! I'll rant at my will!"

Holmes caressed his cheek. – "I'm glad that I met you."

Watson rolled his eyes. – "Why didn't you try to come see me this whole year, and a half?"

Holmes's hand went to the crook of his neck. – "Why didn't you?"

- "I did!"

- "You're trying to make me feel more loved during this voyage that you have ever before; let off, we're not like that."

- "I'm not doing anything different."

- "I was trying to forget you."

- "Why? What for?"

Holmes shrugged and pouted, aloof. – "I thought it was time."

Watson's eyes narrowed in annoyance. – "Just like that?"

- "You were trying to have a kid; you had been trying before too but I just thought: 'Holmes you're immature and clingy, it's time you accept there's no place for you anymore.' There isn't Watson, it's time for you to become a full-time husband and me, the lone wolf that I've always been."

Watson arched his eyebrows in amused disbelief, nodded slightly. – "Wolf…"

Holmes shrugged again. –"What? You wouldn't want me to pity myself would you?"

- "Prick!"

So you can see that when Watson wrote this it was nothing but denial: "And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed. On the contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant spirits. Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would _cheerfully_ bring his own career to a conclusion."

What Holmes had indeed said was: - "I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain. If my record were closed to-night I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence." Period.

* * *

_Next chapter will be the end in two short chapters_


	7. CHAPTER IX AND X

IX. EVERYTHING IS LIKE INTERLAKEN.

In Leuk they immersed themselves in thermal waters. It was a small town with few white houses and no one around; it was deep in snow and when they saw the thermal waters they dared each other: who wouldn't back down from getting naked in that freezing weather over the snow to plunge into an unknown pond?; at least they had checked the water wasn't going to cook them alive. Neither backed down but Holmes was the winner because he was in already while Watson, still wearing his pants, was outside trembling while trying to take them off, interrupting himself once and again to hug himself and shrink a little bit in a ball. The dry stone which was the only place possible where they could leave their clothes was quite a few steps away from the scary pond.

- "I will lose my feet!" Watson exclaimed as he ran naked to dive head in as Holmes had.

Holmes laughed when Watson's wet head emerged. – "How do you feel Watson?"

Watson smiled. – "Wonderful!"

In the Gemmi Pass they had difficulties, applying all professional survival skills to get through; all the time they only saw each other's eyes with some very small flakes on the eyelashes.

There was nothing in Interlaken but the frozen lake, so they continued to Meiringen, getting there on the 3rd of May and on the afternoon of the 4th they were standing near the Reichenbach falls, being sprayed on the face by their water. Holmes had seen the suspicious head of a white-blond Swiss boy in the middle of nothing as they climbed and so he realized his time was up.

He held Watson's squirming shocked body by the nape, as he kissed him with all his being right in front of the Swiss boy who had already said they needed a doctor; the boy was just a 13 year old and opened his eyes wide and learnt something that day. Then Watson thought he was sure it was a trap.

- "Go."

- "I don't want to go."

- "That woman might die Watson."

- "No."

Holmes kissed him again contradicting his own words. – "Do you truly think Moriarty would hire an innocent small boy to trick us? I saw him in the town with his mother! Didn't you?"

- "No."

- "Look at him!"

Watson did; the boy was still wide-eyed and gaping, looking like a phosphorescent angel. – "Are you lying?" Watson asked him anyway. – "If you're lying I will punish you more harshly than that man, Moriarty ever could." He was menacing. - "… I will kill you."

- "Watson!"

But the boy only shook his head briskly, paling and his mouth beginning to purse and distend, as if he was about to cry.

- "Fine!" He raised his hands. –"Fine!"

Holmes hurtled to kiss him again. – "I will walk to Rosenlaui, join me there when you're done." And he kissed him one last time.

X. VERTIGO

Moriarty seemed to unhook himself from a rock, like a bat. – "Mr. Holmes a cocksucker, I should have guessed it."

Holmes smiled tight at him. – "A little beneath you to use that kind of meaningless invectives." Holmes licked his lips without wanting to prove anything by it; he was in fact remembering of all the times when he had sucked Watson's cock. – "You're all alone now aren't you?"

- "Moran's bullet wound got infected. Yes, he died before they could arrest him. All others are in jail, even Declan Diaz; my net was too tight."

Holmes made a mocking sorrowful pout. – "Are you sad?"

Moriarty sneered. – "I'll be better when you die. Which you now can realize is the only possible outcome." Moriarty held a gun in his hand, Holmes had nothing on him; Watson was carrying his own gun and didn't know Holmes didn't have his.

Holmes waved his hand. – "I don't want to die from a bullet; it's fast, common and boring. Since you'll never recover from what I've done to you, since you'll never again do much wrong…" He nodded once. – "I'm ready to die. But I prefer dying down there." He signaled the fall at his back. Then he turned around, and calmly walked that way. Moriarty realized Holmes wanted to pull him down with him, but didn't think he would be able to. - "Don't shoot; I want to feel my bones cracking." Holmes said, calmly and cold. – "Just push me."

But Moriarty didn't know Holmes was superhumanly agile and when he kicked him, in less than a second his foot was gripped, he tripped over his back, dragged painfully by the rocky floor and was helplessly hauled down to the precipice.

Holmes did feel his bones cracking; in the sharp inhale that provoked he drank two mouthfuls of gushing water, and then he was bewildered, his mind felt thick like cotton and his suffocating body immaterial; he began having delusions until he plunged into the water, where he saw blue, and just a trace from his red appearing by the left of his head, and then what could still move of him shook violently, all was black and then nothing… nothing forever.

Watson screamed, screamed and cried, and dug his own nails into the back of his head. Then on his way to London he kept crying. And in London Mary couldn't get him out of bed for a whole month and a half.

Then Mary was pregnant, and they had a kid, and Watson could go on with his life; the only sequel of the whole affair being that he experienced vertigo and was dreadfully afraid of heights, with some scant bouts of sweet nostalgia.


End file.
